All right. Clearly the intelligent thing to do was sit here and wait for the net to open. And hope I wasn’t permanently stuck like Carruthers.
“And meanwhile Verity’s lost somewhere!” I shouted and was instantly sorry. The bats attacked again, and it was a good five minutes before they subsided.
I sat still and listened. Either this dungeon was completely soundproofed, or I wasn’t anywhere in the last three centuries. The world hasn’t been truly silent since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Even the Victorian era had had trains and steam launches to contend with, and in the cities, the rattle and clop of traffic which would shortly become a roar. And both Twentieth and Twenty-First Century have an electronic hum that’s always present. Here, now that the bats had gone back to bed, there was no sound at all.
So what now? I’d probably kill myself if I tried any more exploration, and probably miss the net’s opening in the process. Assuming it was going to open.
I felt in my pocket for another match and my watch. Half past X. Warder had had a half-hour intermittent on the drop at Muchings End and I had only been in the lab twenty minutes, in Blackwell’s possibly fifteen. Which meant the net might open at any time. Or not at all, I thought, remembering Carruthers.
And in the meantime, what? Sit here and stare at the darkness? Worry about Verity? Try to figure out what had happened to the bishop’s bird stump?
According to Verity, detectives weren’t required to go anywhere or do anything. They could sit in an easy chair (or a dungeon) and solve the mystery just by using “the little gray cells.” And I had more than enough mysteries to occupy me: Who on earth would have wanted to steal the bishop’s bird stump? Who was Mr. C and why the bloody hell hadn’t he shown up yet? What was Finch up to? What was I doing in the middle of the Middle Ages?
But the answer to that one was obvious. Verity and I had failed, and the continuum was starting to collapse. Carruthers trapped in Coventry and then the slippage on the return drops and then Verity—I should never have let her go through. I should have realized what was happening when the net wouldn’t open. I should have realized what was going to happen when Tossie didn’t meet Mr. C.
It was one of T.J.’s worst-case Waterloo scenarios, an incongruity too devastating for the continuum to be able to fix it. “See here,” T.J. had said, pointing at the formless gray image, “and here, you have radically increased slippage, but it can’t contain the incongruity, and you can see here where the backups start to fail, and the net begins to malfunction as the course of history starts to alter.”
The course of history. Terence marries Tossie instead of Maud, and a different pilot flies the mission to Berlin, and he miscalculates the target or is hit by flak, or he thinks he hears something wrong with the engine and turns back, and the other planes, thinking he’s received orders, follow him, or because of him they get lost, the way the German pilots had two nights before, or somehow the lack of their grandson’s presence in the world affects the history of airplane development or the amount of gasoline in England or the weather. And the raid never happens.
The Luftwaffe doesn’t retaliate by bombing London. It doesn’t bomb Coventry. So there is no restoration project. And no Lady Schrapnell to send Verity back to 1888. And the paradoxes multiply and reach critical mass and the net begins to break down, trapping Carruthers in Coventry, sending me farther and farther afield. This is the cat that dropped the bomb that brought down the house that Jack built.
It was getting colder. I pulled the lapels of my blazer together, wishing it was the tweed.
But if it was a worst-case scenario, why hadn’t there been any increased slippage on Verity’s drop? “See here,” T.J. had said, bringing up sim after sim after sim, “every single incongruity has this area of radically increased slippage around the focus.” Except ours.
Nine minutes’ slippage on that first drop, between two and thirty on all the others, an average of fourteen for all drops to the Victorian era. Only two areas of increased slippage, and one of those was due to Ultra.
I took my coat off and wrapped it around me like a blanket, shivering and thinking about Ultra.
Ultra had had a system of backups, too. The first line of defense was secrecy. But if there was a breach, they put their secondary system of defenses into action, like they had done in North Africa.
They’d been using Ultra to locate and sink convoys carrying fuel oil to Rommel, which could have roused suspicions that codes were being broken, so a spotter plane had been sent up each time to be seen by the convoy, so the Nazis could blame the sinking on having been spotted.
Except once, when heavy fog kept the plane from finding the convoy, and, in their panic to make certain the oil didn’t make it to Rommel, the RAF and the Royal Navy had both shown up to sink it, and nearly blown the cover.
So the head of Ultra put a backup plan into operation, planting rumors in the port of Malta, sending an easily decodable message to a nonexistent agent, arranging for it to be intercepted. The message thanked the agent for his information on the convoy and gave him a raise. And the Nazis had spent the next six months tracking down rumors and looking for the agent. And not suspecting we had Ultra.
And if that plan had failed, they would have tried something else. And even if all the plans had failed, they would have failed after, not during the breach.
No matter how bad the incongruity was, the continuum should have tried to prevent it. Instead, it had added nine minutes’ slippage, nine minutes that had sent Verity through at the exact moment to save the cat, when five minutes either way would have prevented it from happening at all. It was as if the continuum had taken one look at the incongruity and fainted dead away, like Mrs. Mering.
Verity had said to look for the one little fact that didn’t fit, but none of it fit: Why, if the continuum was trying to repair itself, hadn’t it sent me through at Muchings End so I could have returned the cat before Mrs. Mering went off to consult Madame Iritosky? Why had it sent me through three days late and just in time to prevent Terence from meeting Maud? And the biggest little fact of all, why had the net allowed the incongruity at all when it was supposed to shut down automatically?
“You understand these are all hypothetical scenarios,” T.J. had said. “In all these cases, the net refused to open.”
It was impossible to get anywhere near Waterloo. Or Ford’s Theater. Or Franz-Joseph Street. If the cat was so pivotal to the course of history, why wasn’t it impossible to get anywhere near Muchings End? Why wasn’t there increased slippage on Verity’s drop, where it was needed, and so much in Oxford in April, 2018? And how, if the slippage was keeping everything away, had I gotten through?
It would have been nice if the answer had been there, in the lab in 2018, but it was obvious that, whatever had caused the slippage, it wasn’t anything Jim Dunworthy or Shoji Fujisaki had done. They weren’t doing any drops.
Doubtless, if Hercule Poirot were here, he’d have come up with a neat solution not only to the Mystery of the Baffling Incongruity, but also that of the Little Princes in the Tower, Jack the Ripper, and who blew up St. Paul’s. But he wasn’t, and neither was the dapper Lord Peter Wimsey, and if they were, I’d have taken their coats away from them and put them over my knees.
Somehow, during that reverie, I had realized I was staring at an unevenness in the pitch-blackness opposite that might be the mortar between the stones, and that it meant light was coming from somewhere.
I flattened myself against the wall, but the light, or, rather, very slight absence of darkness, didn’t flicker or grow, like a torch coming down from somewhere above.
And it wasn’t the reddish-yellow of a lantern. It was only a grayer shade of black. And I must really be time-lagged, because it took another five minutes for the other possibility to occur to me: that the reason for the pitch-blackness was that it was night and I was in a tower, after all. And the way out was down.
And a near-fall and scraping of my right hand catch
ing myself to realize that if I waited another half hour I’d be able to see where I was going and get out of here without killing myself.
I sat back down on the step, leaned my head against the wall, and watched the grayness grow.
I had made an assumption that darkness meant a dungeon, and as a consequence, I had been looking at things all wrong. Was that what we were doing in regard to the incongruity, too? Had we assumed something we shouldn’t have?
History was full of mistaken’ assumptions—Napoleon’s assuming Ney had taken Quatre Bras, Hitler’s assuming the invasion would come at Calais, King Harold’s Saxons’ assuming William the Conqueror’s men were retreating instead of leading them into a trap.
Had we made a mistaken assumption about the incongruity? Was there some way of looking at it which explained everything—from the lack of slippage on Verity’s drop to the excess of it in 2018? Some way of looking at it in which everything fit—Princess Arjumand and Carruthers and the bishop’s bird stump and all those bloody jumble sales and curates, to say nothing of the dog—and it all made sense?
I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was fully daylight and there were voices coming up the stairs.
I looked wildly round the narrow tower, as if there might actually be somewhere to hide, and then sprinted up the stairs.
I had gone at least five steps before I realized I needed to count the steps so I would know where the drop was. Six, seven, eight, I counted silently, rounding the next curve of the steps. Nine, ten, eleven. I stopped, listening.
“Hastyeh doon awthaslattes?” the woman said.
It sounded like Middle English, which meant I’d been right about this being the Middle Ages.
“Goadahdahm Boetenneher, thahslattes ayrnacoom,” the man said.
“Thahslattes maun bayendoon uvthisse wyke,” the woman said.
“Tha kahnabay,” he said.
I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I had heard this conversation a number of times before, most recently in front of the south door of St. Michael’s. The woman was demanding to know why something wasn’t done. The man was making excuses. The woman, who must be an early ancestor of Lady Schrapnell’s, was saying she didn’t care, it had to be done in time for the jumble sale.
“Thatte kahna bay, Goadahdahm Boetenneher,” he said. “Tha wolde hahvneedemorr holpen thanne isseheer.”
“So willetby, Gruwens,” the woman said.
There was a clank of stone on stone, and the woman snapped, “Lokepponthatt, Gruwens! The steppe bay loossed.”
She was yelling at him for the loose step. Good. I hoped she read him out properly.
“Ye charge yesette at nought,” she said.
“Ne gan speken rowe,” the workman said placatingly.
They were still coming up. I looked up the tower’s shaft, wondering if there might be a room or a platform above.
“Tha willbay doone bylyve, Goadahdahm Boetenneher.”
Botoner. Could the woman be Ann Botoner, or Mary, who had built the spire of Coventry Cathedral? And could this be the tower?
I started up again, trying not to make any noise and counting the steps. Nineteen, twenty.
There was a platform, overlooking an open space. I looked down at it. The bells. Or where the bells would be when they were installed. I had just ascertained my space-time location. It was the tower of Coventry Cathedral, the year it was built. 1395.
I couldn’t hear them. I went back to the stairs and took two tentative steps down. And nearly ran into them.
They were right below me. I could see the top of a white-coiffed head. I leaped back up to the level of the platform, and on up the stairs, and nearly stepped on a pigeon.
It squawked and flew up, flapping like a bat at me and then past me and down onto the platform.
“Shoo!” Dame Botoner shouted. “Shoo! Thah divils minion!”
I waited, poised for flight and trying not to pant, but they didn’t come any farther. Their voices echoed oddly, as if they had gone over to the far side of the platform, and after a minute I crept back down to where I could see them.
The man was wearing a brown shirt, leather leggings, and a pained expression. He was shaking his head. “Nay, Goadudahm Marree,” he said. “It wool bay fortnicht ahthehlesst.”
Mary Botoner. I looked wonderingly at this ancestor of Bishop Bittner’s. She was wearing a reddish-brown shift, cut out in the wide sleeves to show a yellow underdress, and fastened with a metal belt that sank somewhat low. Her linen coif was pulled tight around her plump, middle-aged face, and she reminded me of someone. Lady Schrapnell? Mrs. Mering? No, someone older. With white hair?
She was pointing to things and shaking her head. “Thahtoor-maun baydoon ah Freedeywyke,” she said.
The workman shook his head violently. “Tha kahna bay, Goaduhdahm Boetenneher.”
The woman stamped her foot. “So willetbay, Gruwens.” She swept round the platform to the stairs.
I ducked back out of sight, ready to go up again, but the discussion was apparently over.
“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—” the workman pleaded, following her.
I crept after them, keeping one turn above.
“Gottabovencudna do swich—” the workman said, trailing after her.
I was nearly back to the site of the drop.
“Whattebey thisse?” the woman said.
I cautiously came down one step, and then another, till I could see them. Mary Botoner was pointing at something on the wall.
“Thisse maun bey wroughtengain,” she said, and, above her head, like a halo, I saw a faint shimmer.
Not now, I thought, not after waiting a whole night.
“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—” the workman said.
“So willet bey,” Mary Botoner said, jabbing her bony finger at the wall.
The shimmer was growing brighter. One of them would look up in a moment and see it.
“Takken under eft!” she said.
Come on, come on. Tell her you’ll fix it, I thought.
“Thisse maun bey takken bylyve” she said, and started, finally, down the stairs. The workman rolled his eyes, tightened his rope belt round his ample middle, and started after her.
Two steps. Three. Mary Botoner’s coiffed head disappeared round the curve of the tower and then bobbed back into sight. “Youre hyre isse neyquitte till allisse doone.”
I couldn’t wait any longer, even if it meant they saw me. People in the Middle Ages had believed in angels—with luck, they’d think I was one.
The shimmer began to glow. I shot down the steps, jumping over the pigeon, who took off into the air with a wild squawking.
“Guttgottimhaben,” the workman said, and they both turned to look up at me.
Mary Botoner crossed herself. “Holymarr remothre—”
And I dived for the already closing net and sprawled flat onto the blessed tiled floor of the lab.
“We realized with intense consternation and horror . . .
that nothing more could he done.”
Provost Howard
CHAPTER 24
In the Lab—A Long-Delayed Arrival—A Letter to the Editor—In the Tower—I Ascertain My Space-Time Location—In the Cathedral—I Act Without Thinking—Cigars—A Dragon—A Parade—In the Police Station—In a Shelter—Fish—Verity Is Found at Last—“Our beautiful, beautiful cathedral!”—An Answer
And let it be 2057, not 2018. I looked up, and yes, it was. Warder was bending over me, extending a hand to help me up.
When she saw it was me, she stood up and put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“What am I doing here?” I said, picking myself up. “What the bloody hell was I doing in 1395? What was I doing in Blackwell’s in 1933? I want to know where Verity is.”
“Get out of the net,” she said, already moving back to the console and beginning to type. The veils on the net began to rise.
“Find out where Verity i
s,” I said, following her. “She went through yesterday, and something went wrong. She—”
She moved her hand in a gesture of silencing. “Eleven December,” she said into the console’s ear. “Two P.M.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “Verity’s missing. There’s something wrong with the net.”
“In a minute,” she said, staring at the screen. “Six P.M. Ten P.M. Carruthers is stuck in Coventry,” she said, her eyes never moving from the screen, “and I’m trying to—”
“ Verity may be stuck in a dungeon. Or the middle of the Battle of Hastings. Or the lion’s cage at the Zoo.” I pounded on the console. “Find out where she is.”
“In a minute” she said. “Twelve December. Two A.M. Six A.M.—”.
“No!” I said, grabbing the ear of the console away from her. “Now!”
She stood up angrily. “If you do anything to jeopardize this rendezvous—”
Mr. Dunworthy and T.J. came in, their heads together worriedly over a handheld. “—another area of increased slippage,” T.J. was saying. “See, here it—”
“Give me that ear,” Warder said furiously, and they both looked up.
“Ned,” Mr. Dunworthy said, hurrying over. “How did Coventry go?”
“It didn’t,” I said.
Warder snatched the ear back and began feeding times into it.
“No Mr. C, no ‘life-changing experience,’” I said. “Verity tried to come through to tell you, but she didn’t make it. Tell Warder she’s got to find her.”
“I’m running the accelerated,” Warder said.
“I don’t care what you’re running,” I said. “It can wait. I want you to find out where she is now?”
“In a minute, Ned,” Mr. Dunworthy said quietly. He took my arm. “We’re trying to pull Carruthers out.”
“Carruthers can wait!” I said. “You know where he is, for God’s sake! Verity could be anywhere!”
“Tell me what’s happened,” he said, still calmly.
“The net’s starting to break down,” I said. “That’s what’s happened. Verity went through to tell you we failed at Coventry, and right after she’d gone through, Finch came through and said she hadn’t come through to the lab. So I tried to come through and tell you, but I ended up here in 2018, and then in Blackwell’s in 1933, and then in a—”
To Say Nothing of the Dog Page 47
